TEACHING YOU THE LANGUAGE THE LANGUAGE SCHOOLS DON'T TEACH, AND
GIVING YOU THE EXAMPLES THE EXEMPLARY SCHOOLS DON'T GIVE

What this blog is for and about

I also offer personally-tailored, individualized English conversation practice (including etiquette) and coaching in writing techniques. Finally, I edit texts such as magazines, business proposals, memorandums, emails so they are presented in English which does not embarrass you or your organization. For further details, please mail me at: language.etiquette@gmail.com

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I wasn’t entirely surprised to see neither Vladimir Putin
nor Muammar Gaddafi at Robin Gibb’s funeral in Oxfordshire yesterday
afternoon—the latter because he is dead and former because he seems to prefer
sending his deputy, a young law professor and shadow politician called Dmitri
Medvedev, to such events. What good enough for the G8 is good enough for
a BG—or Bee Gee as they used to call themselves in the pre-Twitter age.
Older readers will remember the Bee Gees getting their teeth
round Massachusetts and other croon-worthy lerv songs in the late 1960s, before
they morphed into disco favourites with the sound-track to Saturday Night
Fever, which included the signature track Stayin’ Alive, as well
as Night Fever and Jive Talkin’. Their final ascent into stellar celebrity
status resulted from their
appearance on the Kenny Everett Show. They were so popular that Everett
decided to show how any normal person like himself could, with the aid of a few
pills, become a Bee Gee.
I always admired the Bee Gees for never doing things the sensible, straight-forward
way. Like his brothers Maurice and Barry, Robin went from the Isle of Man,
where he was born, to Oxfordshire, where he died, via Australia of all places, which is miles
off the direct route. But maybe that's how they got that famous tan.
I left the funeral early because I saw Mike Read
there, the odious DJ and moralist who was responsible for getting the flash gay
band, Frankie Goes to Hollywood, boycotted by the BBC because their epic song Relax appeared to
discourage what used to be called “Hunnish practices”, something which Obertoßer
Read presumably thought, au contraire, ought to be encouraged. But it
was nice to touch base with Uri Geller, and also Paul Gambaccini, the music historian who famously said
that Robin had “one of the best white soul voices ever”.
Having missed Maurice’s funeral (after he died, in 2003,
from a convoluted volvulus) I cannot compare the guest lists. But I look
forward to seeing who shows up to Barry’s event—long may it be delayed. At
least I hope to be there, along with Uri, Paul and the gang, unless of course he lives
forever, in which case we will all be Stayin’ Alive in our respective coffins.

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About Me

I am a writer, journalist, broadcaster and editor, living in Russia. I have written four books and I now publish this blog, which aims to help Russians master the difficult art of writing fluently in English. You can contact me at: language.etiquette@gmail.com
Enjoy!